"
"But, sir--"
"But, in truth," cried the prince, "did it not depend upon myself whether I
should ever leave her? Why did I not adopt her? I, who lament so much for
my child? Why, instead of sending this unfortunate child to Madame George,
did I not keep her with me? To-day I should only have had to extend my arms
to her. Why have I not done that? Why? Ah! because one only does good by
halves; because one only values treasures when they have disappeared
forever: because instead of raising at once to her true level this
admirable young girl, who, in spite of misery and abandonment, was, through
her mind and heart, greater, nobler, perhaps, than she ever would have been
by the advantages of birth and education. I thought I was doing much for
her by placing her at a farm with some good people, as I would for the
first interesting beggar that I met in the streets. It is my fault--it is
my fault. If I had done that she would not have been dead. Oh! yes, I am
punished--I have deserved it--bad son, bad father!"
Murphy knew that such grief was inconsolable, and remained silent.
"I shall not remain here--Paris is hateful to me; to-morrow I go--"
"You are right, my lord."
"We will stop at the farm of Bouqueval. I will shut myself up for some
hours in her chamber, where she passed the only happy days of her life. I
will have collected with religious care all that belonged to her--the books
she commenced to read; the paper she had written on; the clothes she has
worn--all, even to the furniture--even to the tapestry of her rooms, of
which I myself will take an exact delineation.
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